


the wings of icarus

by enkiduu



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Kinda Dark, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkiduu/pseuds/enkiduu
Summary: Just because Merlin has wings doesn't mean he'll fly away. He wouldn't trade this for the world—no, not when he's traded the world for this.





	the wings of icarus

**Author's Note:**

> Finally wrote a wingfic, woo!

Fact: the court doesn’t trust Merlin. 

That’s irrelevant. The only trust Merlin wants is Arthur’s, and he has it. He's the king's as much as the king is his. The Pendragon have never let angels close—Merlin is the once and only exception. He’s made sure of it. 

"We sent you so you could gain the king's favour, Emrys," Nimueh says with false confidence in her countenance, trying to keep trepidation out of her smirk. Her apparition walks in the tall windows that line the corridor beside Merlin, who does not stop for her. 

Merlin arches an eyebrow. Nobody _sent_ him because nobody could've stopped him anyway. He darts his gaze over to Nimueh's magical reflection. Looking through her, he sees the city of Camelot down below, all artificial lights, skyscrapers built from ambition, and Fallen who wish to usurp the heavens. 

If given even the briefest taste of freedom, they will become ravenous and try to fly even higher. Merlin will not let them. He will never let them, for destruction lies in the wake of that flight. 

"I do have the King's favour," Merlin says, words smooth as the side of a blade and equally dangerous. "And I don't intend to lose it anytime soon." Or ever. 

"You've done nothing with it.” 

“Haven’t I?” Merlin cocks his head. "I've ruffled your feathers with it, no?" 

Nimueh's withered, blackened wings jerk behind her reflexively. "I don't think you're ever going to do anything with it," she says sourly. 

Nimueh’s wrong. Merlin just won't be doing what they wanted of him, what he’s supposed to want to do—to fly, to rule, to be free. Nimueh and the rest of the Fallen, they’ve forgotten what angels were made for. "You of all angels should understand." 

Nimueh scowls. "I made my mistakes, but at least Uther is dead. Your king has barely done anything to improve our situation, yet he still lives. Is he the puppet, or are you?" she asks accusingly. 

"Is that a threat, Nimueh?" Merlin doesn't take well to threats against Arthur's safety.

Nimueh blinks at him, aghast. "You really have been actively protecting him. We put our _faith_ in you. Does your betrayal not weigh the least bit on your conscience?" Ugly anger colours her voice.

"Ah, faith," Merlin says softy. He had faith once. Misplaced. But no longer—he knows to whom he belongs. "Fuel for the desperate." 

"Emrys," Nimueh snarls. "You are pathetic! Our world is within your reach, yet you choose to be bound as the false king’s _guardian angel_." She's always worn her exile with pride, as if it means she has more right to the throne, but it's moments like these that reveal how devastated she truly is to be unable to soar up into the skies. “The throne is not Arthur Pendragon’s. The skies belong to us, not the humans, and certainly not _him_. You have flown out of your mind, the sun will _burn_ you, Emrys—”

“No,” Merlin says, silencing Nimueh. “He is _mine_. The heavens are ours.” He stretches his wings wide, casting shadows over the iron door before him. Nimueh is gone by the time the door slides open to reveal Arthur’s chambers. 

Arthur turns to look at him, smiling. “Merlin,” he says, pleased. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

Merlin grins. “Recon is easy when you have wings,” he says, flapping them, forming a gentle breeze. “We’ll have Essetir soon.”

“Good.” Fingers run down Merlin’s wings, curling around the sensitive feathers. It is such an intimate gesture, one that sends shivers throughout Merlin’s body. Everyone else who’s ever touched his wings has died. “Good,” Arthur repeats more hoarsely, tugging Merlin in for a kiss. 

Merlin knows Arthur, knows what Arthur wants, and Arthur’s always unabashedly _greedy_ , his tongue hot and searing like a brand where it licks, pushing into Merlin’s mouth with such fierceness. His hunger makes Merlin respond in kind, yearning to be his, to reassure him he won’t leave, he’ll never leave. Whatever Arthur wants, Merlin will give. It’s been years—still, Arthur touches him like he might fly away at any moment, tracing his wings and mapping the lines of his body, sucking his neck where feathers meet skin, making Merlin moan breathlessly. 

“Kneel for me,” Arthur commands, and Merlin nods, knees buckling, submitting without a second thought. He relishes the feeling of Arthur’s fingers curving around his scapula, digging in with enough pressure to make Merlin’s wings tremble, his body shuddering, a sob of bliss, of _please_ escaping his lips. This is where he belongs. Angels are made to serve. 

Merlin stares up at Arthur, golden eyes blown wide, glazed over with reverence. “I’ll serve you till the day the sea runs dry,” he vows, nuzzling Arthur’s thigh, “till the sun withers, till the day I die.” 

Arthur gasps, staring at Merlin with such heated eyes. He is so beautiful, Merlin has to shut his eyes against his brilliance for a moment lest he be _blinded_. “Yes, you will,” he whispers, caressing Merlin’s cheek. His cock twitches and Merlin captures it with his lips, sucking it as deep as he can until he almost chokes, throat strained, and Merlin’s own arousal is throbbing for attention, but he doesn’t care. This moment is heaven, this moment is theirs, and Merlin will make it last forever, he swears. 

He drinks in Arthur’s _Merlin, you’re so damn_ good _for me,_ and he thinks damnation has never tasted so sweet. Arthur rocks his hips, fucking Merlin’s mouth, and Merlin lets him, addicted to the roughness, the bitterness, the absolute thrill. 

Arthur is the only person in this world who can make Merlin feel so starved and alive at the same time. He swallows him deep, tongue swishing around the head, licking the tip. Just the knowledge that Arthur wants him this much, needs him as Merlin needs Arthur—Merlin’s wings droop to the ground with the sheer gravity of the thought. He's so hard, unable to withstand the pleasure that makes his soul split in half, makes him fall ( _God_ —he’s sold his soul to Arthur long ago). What they have is deeper than any human love, stronger than any angel faith. 

When they fall over the edge, white-hot and _blinding_ , they fall together (till the end finally catches up with them—but they will fall together, always together). Arthur is more thrilling than any freedom the skies could give. 

The light buzz of hunger coils up inside him again, a thread that binds him to Arthur, but for now, he is sated. For now, he can embrace Arthur and listen to the beating of his heart. Merlin wouldn’t trade this for the world— _no_ , not when he’s traded the world for this. 

Merlin sighs, wings curling around Arthur protectively. “I’ll never let you fall,” he promises. He doesn’t care about what prophecies the powers that be have given. He will not let Arthur burn. Merlin doesn't want to get caught in the terrifying night of Arthur’s fallout—he doesn't want to _be_ Arthur’s fallout. “I am your wings.” 

Arthur cards his fingers through Merlin’s feathers gently, touching the ones that are newly tainted black. Merlin feels like he might melt from this overwhelming desire inside him that always leaves him ravenous for more, and he thinks for a moment he should fly away, perhaps he’s the one who’s being burnt, but he can’t leave—how could he—not when Arthur smiles at him like this with all the radiance of the sun, and says, “I trust you.”


End file.
